


Routines Held Onto

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Blow Jobs, Companionship, Cooking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Daddy Kink, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Very mild age play, mention of an abusive mother, subtle angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 04:33:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5361515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The crumbs dusting the macaroni cheese are toasted a lovely golden color. It’s possibly one of the only things that have gone right since the case they’ve just wrapped. The well of tears—the well of tears careens towards him, threatens to surge up. No, he thinks. No."</p><p>After a difficult case, Sherlock and Lestrade fall back on routine to comfort each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Routines Held Onto

**Author's Note:**

> I had a terrible week and if I had a Greg, this is how I would want my hurt to be comforted.
> 
> Thank you for reading.

The minute Lestrade gets home after closing the case, he sheds his clothes, starts the shower, and washes away all evidence of the day he’s had. He lathers his hair generously, his fingers sliding gently across his scalp. His hands stroke through his body, petting, calming. He touches his chest first, then his arms, his back, between his legs, and finally his legs and feet. All the way, a trail of suds follows his hands, cleansing him.

After he’s finished washing, he stands under the downpour gathering its warmth into his body. He spends a fair amount of time in the ceramic enclave, hidden away behind the shower curtain. Water droplets thicken the air, echo as they hit the tub. He closes his eyes, turning around so the water is warm against his back. In the dark he listens. Cloaked under the intimacy of the water, he can hear air struggling into his lungs, then rushing out. He sinks deeper, hears his diaphragm flexing and unflexing below the quiet whoosh, hears the silent thud of his heart.

He counts his heartbeats, breathing in time with them. He holds his hands in front of his mouth so he can feel the hot air his lungs release. Each breath gushes over them in a silky movement, leaving them cool and dry. He feels himself stand still deep inside his body. He casts away the well of tears that have gathered through the case.

He stays in that place for a while. The water begins to turn cold and he expels his last breath and turns off the shower. He towels himself off without a thought; he doesn’t need the care he gave himself in the shower anymore. He’s centered, feet spread to shoulder width, back straight. He looks into the foggy mirror, sees the vague shape of himself distort as he moves. He raises his head, straightening his neck.

A plain white t-shirt, a softly worn, waffle-patterned maroon long-sleeve, soft black cotton pants, grey sweats. Everything is pleasantly loose fitting and nondescript. He doesn’t think of his body when it’s hidden.

He walks to the kitchen, bare feet falling mellifluously into the carpet. He digs out some macaroni and a block of cheddar. In the beginning, he’d looked at the Belstaff coat, the Dolce & Gabbana shirts, heard the polished RP accent spew from the lad’s mouth, and assumed he expected good wine and expensive, complicated food. But Sherlock’s tastes are simple. He supposes it makes sense. All of his clothes, while designer and of the best quality, are very basic. He suspects Mycroft buys Sherlock’s clothes for him, or he did once, and Sherlock just sticks with what works.

The efficiency and lack of fuss Sherlock likes spills over to food. When he’s on a case, he prefers to drop the humdrum necessities and bathe in the extraordinary, so he doesn’t eat at all. When he’s not working, it’s sandwiches and takeaway and the Traditional British food Mrs. Hudson brings up. Mrs. Hudson once told Greg, as he was waiting for an irate consulting detective, that Sherlock’s favorites are a hearty beef wellington and steak and kidney pie. Greg’s since learned that Sherlock likes his eggs scrambled and won’t say no to anything warm and cheesy.

And as for fancy drinks, Sherlock doesn’t drink at all. He’d explained that as he’s an addict, he steers clear of anything addictive. (Besides, Sherlock had said, drugs are much better than alcohol. He doesn’t like feeling slow.)

It’s surprisingly healthy behavior, the only one he’s observed in Sherlock. Greg never drinks around Sherlock.

He’s never sure when Sherlock will show, but after the case they’ve just had, Greg’s pretty sure Sherlock will be coming round, so he’s making macaroni cheese. He’s straining the macaroni when he hears a key in his door. He smiles a bit and gives the cheese sauce a stir.

His lad’s footsteps are heavy as he crosses slowly through the living room to the kitchen. Greg keeps busy though there’s no rush. Sherlock’s stands at the entrance of the kitchen for a moment, watching Greg work. Then, his steps much softer, he walks to Greg.

Greg allows himself to turn his head and glance at Sherlock. The lad’s staring at the stovetop still wearing the starched suits he wears while working. He’s showered, though; he doesn’t still smell like the Thames.

He’s a sight, his lad is. His eyes are struggling to stay open and have dark bruises below them. His eyebrows are twisted upwards, worrying a crease into his forehead. His mouth is slack and expressionless. The twitch of his middle and forefingers tell Greg he’s craving a cigarette. His skin is so pale it’s translucent. Greg imagines he can see straight through to the bone that stretches it gauntly. Yes, he muses, that’s the color of Sherlock’s skin, peroxide white.

It’s going to be one of their slower days.

“Make some tea?” Greg suggests.

Sherlock starts the kettle and goes quietly to the cupboards for mugs and tea bags. He prepares tea the way Greg showers. It’s a slow, methodical step-by-step. Greg can almost hear Sherlock counting the three minutes he likes the tea to brew for in his head.

When the tea’s done, Sherlock brings the mugs to him. They both drink green tea without milk or sugar. Sherlock’s convinced that drinking tea this way, this pure, the same way the Chinese do, cleanses him. Greg just likes the uncomplicated, true taste.

“Thanks,” Greg says.

In response, Sherlock leans in and silently rests his chin on Greg’s shoulder. Greg sets his tea on the counter and wraps an arm around him loosely.

“Add the macaroni to the pan?” Greg says. He feels the muscles under Sherlock’s sleek suit shift as his lad reaches for the macaroni. He detaches himself and lets Sherlock stir mechanically while he gets a baking dish and breadcrumbs.

“Can you stir some pepper in there?” Greg asks, grazing just his fingertips across Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock lets out a tiny noise and nods, air whooshing out of his lungs. He gets the pepper with his breath coming faster. His hand, grasping the peppershaker, trembles over the pasta. “Is that enough?”

“Maybe just a bit more,” Greg says. He covers Sherlock's thin, quivering hand with his own rougher one and tips the shaker. Sherlock presses a bit closer to him. “There we go,” Greg says.

He brings the baking dish over and Sherlock pours the macaroni in. Greg sprinkles breadcrumbs over it and puts the dish in the oven.

Sherlock remains where he is, gazing vacantly at the edge of the stove. Greg takes his hand and guides him to the living room where they sink onto the sofa. Sherlock curls his legs up under him, folds his hands on his lap. His breath continues to come a bit faster. His back is rigid inside his starched suit. Greg turns the telly on. Calm, rehearsed voices rush into the room. Sherlock relaxes infinitesimally. Nothing bad ever happens for real on television. It’s possibly the safest place there is.

They sit, drinking in the normalcy of Greg’s brightly lit living room with the telly on and the smell of molten cheese wafting gently through the flat. “I’ve got to get the food,” Greg says after a while. _You’ll be all right?_ he adds, squeezing Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock moves his knee just a bit and brushes Greg’s thigh with it. Greg nods and moves to the kitchen.

He opens the oven. Hot air yawns up and embraces him. He lingers in it. The crumbs dusting the macaroni cheese are toasted a lovely golden color. It’s possibly one of the only things that have gone right since the case they’ve just wrapped. The well of tears—the well of tears careens towards him, threatens to surge up. _No._ He takes a deep breath and again imagines casting the well far away from himself. He brings the dish and two bowls back to the living room.

Sherlock’s sitting in the same austere position he left him in. His spine is tense and his shoulders are drawn. His hands are clenched tightly around each other on his lap, his feet curled up under him. Tears are painting his face.

“Sherlock.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock whispers to his lap, new tears forming like perfect crystals. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

“No. Shh. It’s fine. It’s been a long week.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s all right, son. Come here.”

It’s the word _son_ , Greg knows, that gets Sherlock, who scoots over slowly. He glances through tears at him. Greg must look like he’s shattering into pieces. He lifts his arm, inviting Sherlock in. Sherlock carefully burrows under his arm, snuggling in tight. He can feel him keeping it all in, struggling to breathe like Greg does.

“It’s fine, lad. I’ve already seen some of the tears. Might as well let it all out.”

When Sherlock cries, he hides his face in something. It’s the nook between Greg’s shoulder and neck this time. In his side Greg can feel every sharp, shuddering breath his lad takes. He can feel the silent sobs tearing through his body. He’s never heard Sherlock cry out loud.

A week ago, a boy called in a missing person’s report after his girlfriend disappeared. The girl’s mother lied about beating her daughter, about the times she put ricin poison in her daughter’s food. She’d presented a concerned front. Sherlock, after following a red herring that sent him falling into the Thames, found the trail again and solved the case—he’d found the daughter dead from an overdose of cocaine and heroin. The girl had killed herself before her mother’s poison set in. There had been no one to report the death to; the boyfriend had moved on, her father wasn’t around.

Greg can see why it bothers Sherlock. Try as they might, it’s incredibly hard to spot an abusive mother, even harder to prove it. Even Sherlock hadn’t seen it. They’d wasted a week running about stumped. And to have it all end in suicide is a disappointment. It’ll be extremely hard to bring the mother to justice.

Abusive mothers are about the only things that affect Sherlock like this. Greg waits it out, timing his breaths with Sherlock’s.

Eventually his back gets tired. He tips them down into a horizontal position. Anyone looking in would think they were a normal couple, cuddling on the couch watching a bit of telly. Sherlock’s sandwiched between Greg and the back of the sofa. Greg keeps his arms tight around his lad. Sherlock keeps his head tucked beneath Greg’s.

“All right?” Greg says.

Sherlock takes a deep, deep breath that shudders several times on its way in. “All right.”

“Shh,” Greg murmurs though everything is quiet except for the telly.

Sherlock breathes into his wet shoulder. They’re wrapped up so tightly. Greg feels like they were born together like this, intertwined in each other. He couldn’t untangle himself from the lad if he tried.

They can feel their hearts thumping against each other. They are so alive.

The television moves from the seven o’ clock news to a late night talk show. It is dark outside. Greg thinks Sherlock’s fallen asleep. All he’s seen of his lad for a while is a mop of black curls. But without surfacing, Sherlock whispers, just so quietly, below the telly, “She was so mean.”

“She was,” Greg agrees quietly.

“Why did she have to be so mean?”

“I don’t know, lad.”

“I wanted things to be nice. Why couldn’t she… why can’t people be nice to each other?”

“Dunno… but if they were, you’d be out of a job.”

Sherlock snuffs into Greg’s neck. He presses a light kiss there. “She was… _so mean_.”

Greg holds Sherlock tighter. He has an awful feeling throbbing in him that Sherlock is disappearing underneath his arms. He has a feeling his lad was never really there, that he grew up invisible and never got all his color back. It’s unbearable.

“Come on, let’s get some food into you,” Greg says. His boy is too hollow like this.

Sherlock releases Greg from their embrace first and stands, taking the macaroni cheese to the microwave. Greg watches him go. He feels like he’s disappearing too.

The microwave beeps. It feels like a warning. Direness slides silkily through Greg’s veins. “It’s hot,” Sherlock announces from the kitchen.

They don’t bother to scoop out servings. They place the serving dish in the couch’s middle seat and sit sideways facing each other. Sherlock has his knees pulled to his chest. Greg wants to, too, but sits cross-legged. The steaming food sits between them like a fire.

They lean over the dish when they take bites. It would not do to stain the couch. Their faces bathe in the warmth. This is the first time in a week that their stomachs have truly been full. That and the promise of plenty of time to eat lulls them.

When they’ve had their fill they put the dish in the fridge and fold back into themselves on the couch.

The more they touch the closer the well comes to overflowing. Greg holds on for his life. He doesn’t want to slip away.

He does, though.

 

The first thing he notices when he opens his eyes is that it’s still dark out. The second thing is that he’s alone in his bed.

Strangled wheezes and a slight whimper come from the other room.

He rolls over. His body aches to go to Sherlock, but if Sherlock finds out that he knows about the nightmares, he’ll never be let in again.

He closes his eyes and feigns sleep. Sherlock has taught him how to do this convincingly.

Finally, Sherlock, wearing a pair of Greg’s pyjamas, is sliding in next to him.

“Can’t sleep,” his lad mumbles.

He shifts around a bit and pretends to wake up. “Did you sleep at all on the case?” he croaks back.

A silent hole where Sherlock’s answer is supposed to be.

“Alright. C’mere.”

Sherlock scoots over until they’re lying nose to nose on the same pillow. Light from the street below trickles in through the window. It makes Sherlock’s eyes look younger and more unfathomable at the same time.

He starts with a feathery kiss in his lad’s nose. He lets his lips roam up, across Sherlock’s forehead, meditating on the soft skin there. He whispers across Sherlock’s hollow cheeks. Their lips meet. The delicious give of his lad’s plump lips has him drowning. He licks into his mouth as Sherlock makes a tiny noise, moving just a little as though stirring.

Sherlock tastes like coffee and rosin. He wonders if these are the things Sherlock has loved so much they’ve sunken into his core. He wonders if he tastes like beer and gunpowder. No one’s ever told him, so he tells his lad, “You taste like coffee and rosin.”

Sherlock mumbles against his lips something incomprehensible. It’s all right; Sherlock often gets like this during sex and Greg likes it. It’s like Sherlock has sunk deep into the two of them. He kisses away the little words as his lad throws an arm and a leg around him.

Sherlock squirms against him. He can feel him start to get hard. He rolls them over so he’s on top.

“Daddy…” Sherlock whispers. The word rustles up from Sherlock’s chest like he’s coming awake for the first time in his life. The way he stares up into Greg’s eyes is quiet and unrelenting.

“I know, son,” Greg says. He places a hand on Sherlock’s prick. “Me too.”

Sherlock shudders and whimpers as Greg strokes him through his pyjamas. Thin fingers tug at Greg’s shirt. Greg takes his hands and pins them above Sherlock’s head. Slowly, instead of his own, he pushes his lad’s shirt off, then his pyjama bottoms and pants.

His boy is so beautiful. He lets their groins push together, kissing up Sherlock’s milky white skin, nuzzling at his nipples, meditating on his long sinuous neck.

Exposure makes Sherlock twist into the sheets, his cock so hard. He’s left his arms where Greg put them like a good boy, but the noises he makes wrench his heart.

“What do you want, baby?”

Sherlock hesitates, watching him, the same unrelenting softness pulsing through his eyes. Then he says, slowly and quietly, as if these are the most important words he’s ever said—ones he could not bear to have misunderstood—“I need your cock in my mouth. Please, Daddy?”

The budding arousal in him begins to bloom. He pushes his head down into his lad’s shoulder, breathing deep. “Yeah, baby. Of course.”

Sherlock crawls down the bed to burrow his nose in Greg’s crotch, inhaling gratefully. He licks desperately at his prick through his pants, making the fabric cling to it. Greg groans as the wetness makes the air cool against his cock. He wiggles his hips. “Fuck, you little tease. Take my pants off, baby boy?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Good boy.”

Sherlock shudders. Those thin fingers scrabble at his pants as Sherlock tugs them off. To his surprise though, he immediately turns his attention not to his cock but to his shirt.

“Okay, lad, okay,” he says. He brings his arms up as Sherlock pushes the shirt off him.

Sherlock crawls back down, nuzzling his face against his cock, giving his glans little licks. He laps and sucks and moans, and when he suckles a bead of pre-come off his cock, one hand holding his shaft to his lips, Greg realizes his baby boy is _nursing_.

“Oh _god_ ,” he groans.

Keeping those unfathomable eyes on Greg’s, Sherlock opens his mouth and takes all of him down his throat.

Greg shouts. Sherlock’s nose nestles in his pubic hair as he hums contentedly, swirling that eager tongue along the underside of his prick. He bobs his head a few times, until Greg can’t help himself and thrusts up into that sweet, sweet mouth.

Sherlock moans, impaling himself further on his cock with every thrust. He takes his cock like it gives him comfort.

“God, you’re beautiful, baby,” Greg grasps his boy’s hair desperately, “you’re so good. Do you like that? Do you like having your mouth full like a dirty boy?”

Sherlock’s beautiful eyes stare up at him through gathering tears as his mouth is fucked, saliva and pre-come sliding down his chin. Just looking at his verdigris so full of trust sends another wave of arousal through Greg. He could stay like this with Sherlock forever, just thrusting and giving and taking in a perfect exchange. His lad’s hands wander back to his balls, stroking them, and he’s so close, he’s there.

“Fuck, fuck baby, I need to stop,” he gasps, tearing away.

“Not good?” Sherlock glances at him. Greg looks back, panting, thinking the exposed look in his boy’s eyes is too real.

“No—so good, son, but I was going to come too soon,” he answers, reaching down for him.

Sherlock surges up and licks into his mouth. He tastes like Greg now. He wonders suddenly if this means he loves him too, just like he loves coffee and his violin. He kisses back, their cocks pushing together as their tongues tangle together in the best way. They rut against each other for a while, gasping into each other’s mouths. The smell of sex surrounds them, haloed between their bodies. The more they touch, the more Greg gasps, something welling up from deep inside him.

“Sh, baby, shh,” Greg whimpers, though Sherlock is quiet. “Daddy’s going to fuck you now.”

Sherlock exhales and rolls onto his stomach, pushing his plump bottom into the air.

Greg smiles. “Eager, are we?” he asks, pressing down that _thing_ that rises up and threatens to crest within him. Sherlock nods. “Then let me see you.”

“Daddy…” Sherlock says, even as his cock flushes dark red and a drop of pre come beads up.

“Show me how much you want me, baby, Daddy wants to see.”

Sherlock flushes as he reaches around, grabs two handfuls of his arse, and pulls his cheeks apart so his little pink hole is exposed.

Greg groans. “Beautiful,” he murmurs into Sherlock’s shoulder blades, “you beautiful, beautiful boy. My beautiful boy.” There’s nothing he can do now except go to him. He tongues his way down his boy’s spine, licking around the dimples above his hips, grabbing onto that lush arse. Sherlock shivers and shakes at his attention, still prying his cheeks apart.

“Please—ah!”

Greg grins wickedly, holds on tightly to Sherlock’s bucking hips, and licks a stripe down Sherlock’s opened crack again. His little hole is twitching in anticipation, and Greg leans forward and buries his face in it, licking and sucking.

Sherlock sinks, mumbling incoherently, his face red. Greg can catch a few _Daddy’_ s in there. Mostly, though, Greg’s lost in Sherlock, the way he tastes half clean and half woodsy. He laps at Sherlock’s loosening entrance, alternating smooth licks with sharp jabs. He wants to taste Sherlock everywhere, wants to know him inside out, the boy and the man. Sherlock’s hole loosens and Greg pushes in with his tongue, flicking and twisting as Sherlock cries out. He wants to know everything that lives in Sherlock, all the stories inside him, as Sherlock sobs and whimpers, pre come dripping onto the sheets. He wants to worship at the entrance of that indescribable heat.

“Shh, baby,” Greg says again, coating his fingers with lube and teasing Sherlock’s hole.

He pushes one finger in, adds another. His boy is so tight around him already, his walls shifting and clenching around him. He fucks him slowly with two fingers, watching as Sherlock groans, pushes his hips back to meet him, listens to the small squelch of lube and fingers and arse and their rapid, eager pants, Sherlock’s tiny, almost unnoticeable moans. Greg watches as Sherlock fucks himself on his Daddy’s fingers, as his hole greedily accepts them over and over.

It’s all so close to the surface, brimming, brimming. “God, I have to fuck you now,” Greg breaks. “Can I do that, baby? Can I take care of you?”

Sherlock shivers, presses his bum back, offering. “Yes, Daddy—Daddy, please, please take me,” he whimpers.

“God, I have you,” Greg gasps, “I have you. My good boy.”

“Please.”

He slicks himself as fast as he can and buries himself in Sherlock with one sure thrust. Sherlock calls out but he can’t hear what he said; his ears are filled with a roaring rush of blood and he groans at it, relieved, panting. This is where he belongs. There isn’t anywhere more right than here. He feels Sherlock’s upper body sinking into the pillows. He’s hugging them, burying his face in them as he tilts his arse up so Greg falls deeper inside him. His boy looks so little and is so hot and tight and slick. And oh god he is inside his boy, Sherlock, and it’s so good so unbearable, sparks shooting up his cock—so he pulls out slightly, thrusts back in—quick short thrusts, still getting used to the beautiful agony.

“Ah!” Sherlock cries. “God! Daddy!” He’s nearly sobbing with each thrust, ragged little sips of air tearing through him.

He fucks into that sinful arse, holds onto those undulating hips. Each thrust brings him deeper and deeper to Sherlock’s core so hot and tight and wet he can’t help but make his thrusts longer and harder.

“So—full—” Sherlock cries.

“My beautiful, filthy boy.” _My Sherlock._ “Take it, take my cock.”

“Daddy!” _Yours. My Greg._ He scrabbles his arms onto the pillow, tries to push himself up, but Daddy’s cock is pistoning into him so relentlessly, he just has to take it and instead search for his words like a good boy. “Daddy—ah! —I need—I—”

“Yeah, baby,” Greg groans, pulling out and flipping Sherlock over onto his back. Sherlock whimpers at the emptiness, his hole fluttering weakly. “God, I know baby,” Greg says. He reenters his boy, back into that hot, tight place, both of them groaning at the sensation.

Sherlock’s eyes are just slivers of verdigris, black pupils dilated into throbbing pools. He looks at Greg—this is what he wanted, after all—and Greg can’t help but see the helplessness in those eyes. The way his boy has surrendered to pleasure, his head thrust back exposing a white throat, hair damp with sweat, a red flush restricted to two bright spots on his high cheekbones—he’s not thinking of anything other than his Daddy’s cock driving into him and his Daddy looking back at him—Sherlock is so beautiful, has never been so beautiful as when he is being taken care of. Every thrust long and hard and fast, Greg wonders how Sherlock can be so beautiful every time they are together, how he can see Sherlock this way every time.

“Daddy—” Sherlock chokes out, lifting his head as far as he can while being fucked into the bed.

Greg leans down and captures Sherlock’s mouth with his own, wrapping Sherlock’s legs around his waist and holding on so he can continue fucking him in the same long, hot, hard rhythm. Sherlock cries out against Greg’s lips at the new angle. His eyes fall shut, but as much as he struggles anew for breath, as much as he whimpers at the onslaught, one hand clutches tightly at the back of Greg’s head, keeping him there as though unsure that the kiss will continue without his direction. His other hand grips the headboard, keeping him from being pounded into it.

They groan into each other’s mouths, lapping at each other like this is where they can taste their mingled voices. Greg’s groans, Sherlock’s whimpers.

Greg pulls away just an inch. “I will never leave you,” he whispers, locking his eyes on his boy, suddenly as careful as he can manage. “I’m yours, all yours, always. I’ll never leave you. I’ll never, ever hurt you. Do you hear me?”

Sherlock cries out, sobbing with each thrust of Greg’s cock. “I—I—”

“It’s all right, baby. You beautiful, perfect boy.”

“Daddy!”

Greg leans down and takes Sherlock’s lips again, scattering kisses, trying to prove himself, trying to…

“Ah—Daddy—I’m close, I’m—” Sherlock sobs.

Greg leaves a last kiss on his boy’s lips, reaches down where Sherlock’s cock is straining, dripping pre come steadily. He pulls three times, and Sherlock is tensing, eyes wide on his.

“Oh, god. I’m coming. I’m going to come,” he utters.

“Yeah, baby, come on, come for me,” Greg says. “My perfect boy.”

“Daddy!” Sherlock gasps. “I— _oh_ —” And then his boy’s face twists into exquisite beauty, his mouth open in a silent scream. His boy’s body pulses, arching up into him, pleasure spurting through his cock, his hole contracting around Greg’s cock—and Greg feels the searing joy wracking through his boy’s body like those weeping breaths he keeps so silent—and he fucks his boy through his aftershocks feeling higher and higher.

“Come on, Daddy,” Sherlock whispers, fallen apart below him. An angel. His eyes are hazy, touched with something he can't name, as he trails a finger down Greg’s cheek. “It’s all right. Let go.” He brings his finger to his mouth, where he sucks it, the wanton display making Greg gasp, thrusting into his boy, trying to push it all down, all of it, because he can’t this time, he just can’t, it’s all welling up—

“Daddy,” Sherlock whispers. He touches a finger to Greg’s cheek again. Greg gasps, staring at his beautiful boy. “It’s all right,” his boy says, and puts the tip of his finger in Greg’s mouth.

He tastes wetness and salt. Tears.

“Daddy,” his boy whispers, putting a warm hand on his face. “Come.”

And he comes, his heart and his cock racing from his mind, blanking it, his eyes screwed shut against the world and its tears, keeping his pleasure locked inside himself, and he comes, suckling through it all on his boy’s finger.

And then it overflows. The pleasure and the tears twisting into one, and he’s collapsed onto Sherlock staring at the pillow by his boy’s head as tears fall from his eyes like rain.

He almost can’t feel himself crying. Can’t hear himself crying. The tears just keep coming. His own personal shower. He’s standing deep inside himself and the well has overflowed and fallen over and broken, and he can’t cast it away anymore.

“Shh, Daddy,” Sherlock says. He wipes the tears away with one hand and runs the other through Greg’s greying hair. “Shh, Greg.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Greg whispers, “God, I’m sorry.”

“Shh,” Sherlock says, “come here.”

 

They lie nested together, sweaty, sticky with come, not so much holding each other as they are tangled and twisted together, until their desperate breaths die away and they breathe steady. Sherlock has got one hand drifting back and forth across Greg’s back. Their chests are beating alongside each other, winding down to a duet in _adagio_. Greg has got one hand carding through Sherlock’s hair.

They are not alone. Everything is all right. The sun is rising, a delicate pale blue edging into the room, dissolving the dark.

Later, when the sun becomes more forceful, they will leave the room. They will shower, make tea, have breakfast. Sherlock will return to Baker Street and the day will come sweeping them along into adventures, into mishaps, into triumphs, into sadness. But for now their happiness and grace is in each other.

“When I was… young,” Sherlock says, “I thought I would never love anybody.”

 

 


End file.
